Watching Carol
by subversivegrrl
Summary: He's always watching her, even when she's not aware of it, and it's not creepy at all. Begins between S2 & 3. Rated M for language and smut.
1. Carol, Dancing

She's doing the dishes, alone, everyone else having managed to make themselves scarce after dinner. He's headed out back to clean up his gear by the pump and hears her humming to herself as she works, a snatch of words he can't really make out. He stops in the doorway and nearly laughs in surprise as he catches sight of her, doing the shimmy up against the front of the sink. The tune is some mid-tempo groove that seems familiar, but he can't really come up with the name. What she's doing turns him into a statue, dry-mouthed.

Leaning on her elbows over the soapy bucket, she pivots on the balls of her feet, her hips swishing from side to side, swiveling, bending her knees to dip down low for just a second. _Jesus Christ._ Daryl thinks it may be just about the sexiest damn thing he's seen in his life, head and shoulders above any sleaze humping a stripper pole. Just Carol, fully clothed, swaying to music only she can hear. Having a good time, if only for a minute. He's been thinking maybe over these past horrible months on the run she's lost that completely, and it settles him somehow to know maybe she hasn't.

Her sweater has gotten rucked up a little in the back, showing the skin above her belt. He can see the knobs of her spine, and it hurts to look at how skinny she's gotten, but more than that he wants to put his tongue right there in that bare spot. She does a delicate little side-step to put down the glasses she's just rinsed, and sings, softly, "_hold me in your hands like a bunch of flowers, set me movin' to your sweetest song…" _and fuck if it's not all he can do to stop himself from taking her up on that.

She rinses the last plate, and dumps the greasy wash water down the drain, leaving the rinse tub for the next round. Always conserving, his Carol.

_Wait - what? __His __Carol, since when?_

She sashays down the length of the counter with the rag, wiping up spills, her thin sweet voice coming stronger, "_...I'm in love, babe… I'm in love with you, baby,_" spins on her toes and comes to a dead stop, her eyes flashing wide and startled, the smile dropping off her face as she realizes she's got an audience. Her face goes almost white, except for high red spots over her cheekbones, and her wet hand goes to her heart like she has to hold it in to keep it from jumping out of her chest. Her eyes drop, and she wraps her arms around her middle, not saying anything.

"'Scuse me," Daryl mutters, and ducks out the door, his own face burning, intent on getting the hell out of there and putting his mind to something besides the instant woody he's got. _Some fuckin' safe house. Nothin' __safe __about what's goin' on in that kitchen._ He reaches down and gives himself a firm, reprimanding squeeze, mumbling, "Shut it, you. Ain't nothin' happenin' with that."


	2. Carol, Crying

Ever since he pulled her out of the Tombs, carrying her to safety, he hasn't been able to keep himself from checking on her every time he gets close to her cell. He sets the lantern down in the corridor, so the light doesn't wake her up. But he can hear her sniffling. _Christ, what now?_ It had been a pretty good day, so it's beyond him what's got her all riled up. He stands uncertainly in the shadows just outside her door and listens to her sobbing. It tears a hole in his gut, and he racks his brain for what might have upset her, something _he_ might have done, but he's fresh out of clues. _As usual, when it came to this one._ Finally he has to either go in or leave, because he can't just stand there like a helpless piece of shit and do nothing.

"Carol?" He hears her shift in the bed. "OK if I come in?"

Her voice is muffled, like she's got her face in the pillow. "I guess, Daryl."

She's all curled up in a ball, and in the dim flicker he can see that she's got a wad of snot rags in her fist. There's used tissues piled all up in front of her, and as she sits up and pats the bed next to her he can see her face is puffy and splotchy and looks pretty wrecked.

He eases down next to her on the bunk and says, "What's goin' on with you?"

She hangs her head and slowly shakes it, like she's dizzy. "I just miss her, Daryl. I miss my baby." He feels a rush of relief that she's not crying because he's been a shitheel again, and then he's ashamed, because a thought like that _makes_ him a shitheel. _Your own fuckin' worst enemy, Dixon_. He reaches over and puts a hand on her back, just rubbing a little, knowing there's nothing he can say to make it better. Kind of relieved he doesn't have to say anything, to be honest.

She's quiet for a long spell, then she sighs and says, "Do you think it will ever get any easier?"

He thinks on that for a while, thinking back over his own losses and whether he's gotten over _any_ of them, ever, before he replies. "I dunno, Carol. Maybe. But what choice do we got? We go on. I don't mean to sound hard, but..."

She leans over against him a little, and bumps her forehead against his shoulder. He's not sure what that means, but she seems to be OK with his words of wisdom, such as they are. At least she's stopped crying.

She sniffs a little, and he says, "Let's get you back in bed, now. Still a few hours left to sleep." He reaches for a fresh tissue and hands it to her; when she just holds it and looks down at it, he takes it back from her and puts it over her drippy nose, his other hand coming up to cup the back of her neck. "Here. Blow." She obliges, even laughs at him a little for that, and he wipes her nose, makes her swing her feet back under the covers and settles her blanket around her. Her eyes shine a little in the light from the hall, and he sees the slow tears start running down her cheeks again.

"I'm sorry, I guess I'm not done crying yet. You don't have to stay, I'll be fine, I just need to get this out of my system." Her voice is wobbly, like she's trying hard not to totally break down again.

He sighs and grabs a blanket from the pile on the top bunk, plops himself down on the floor and leans against her bunk. "I ain't goin' anyplace. You want to cry, you want to talk, I'm here. I'll stay until you fall asleep. Deal?" Her hand slips over his shoulder, and he reaches up to cover it with his own. _Another night on cold concrete. Man, was he going to regret this in the morning. _


	3. Carol, Sleeping

Sometimes he comes wide awake in the middle of the night, just opens his eyes without there being any kind of noise or bad dream or anything to account for it, and he can usually count on it being a good couple of hours before he can get back to sleep. It's not really a bad thing, except for paying for it the next day and needing a couple extra cups of coffee to keep his focus. If he was someplace else, like living in a house, he would go out to sit on the porch and watch the night, but that doesn't work here. So he stares up at where the ceiling would be if he could see it, or he goes up in the guard tower for a bit, or sits at the edge of the cell tier and dangles his feet over, listening to the night sounds of all the people sleeping around him. Or he lights the candle on the table, and watches Carol sleep.

She sleeps like a cat, all balled up on herself, her hands curled into her chest and wrapped up in the sheets, her face tucked down into her chest. When it's cold at night, she goes to bed in a cardigan and a T and sweatpants - not the sexiest gear ever, but she isn't a sound sleeper anyway, and the cold keeps her from getting a good night's rest, so Daryl doesn't begrudge her the choice of nightwear. Besides, he knows that most of the time, if he's in the bed with her, by morning she'll have migrated from wherever she started to being smashed up against him like some kind of second skin, with her cold hands burrowed under his clothes and her nose pressed into the back of his neck. He doesn't begrudge her that, either.


	4. Carol, Coming

He sits up, pressing his back against the wall, and slides his legs under hers so they drape over his thighs. He rests his hand on her bare stomach and begins to rub slow, lazy circles over her with his palm. Her drowsy eyelids flutter open, then close again, but the corners of her mouth turn up ever so slightly, and she murmurs, "hello, you." He bends over to kiss her, running his lips over her brow, then moving to gently capture her mouth, flicking her lips with his tongue.

He slides his fingers beneath the band of her panties, slipping them down to comb through the fine patch of hair between her thighs. Her smile widens, and she purrs a little at him. Her arms come up around his neck, her nails lightly scratching his skin, and she arches her back just a bit, her languid morning stretch pushing her up into him.

Spreading her lips open, he rests his thumb over the hood of her clitoris and slowly begins circling it, dragging the slick skin over the tiny, sensitive nub beneath, the way she likes. Snaking first one finger, then a second into her, he sets up a slow push-pull, sliding the fingers inside her, then withdrawing them to the tips each time his thumb crests over her. At first her face is still with concentration, like she's trying to hear some faint sound, but her hips follow his circles. Then she tosses her head back against the pillow and bites her lip, squeezing her eyes shut, breathing hard and making a whining noise like _hngh-hngh._

He's astonished to see a tear run from the corner of each eye and down into her hair. He holds absolutely still for a second and starts to pull back, but her eyes fly open and her hand seizes his wrist, holding him in place. "_Don't. You. __Dare__,_" she hisses through gritted teeth, bucking impatiently at his idle hand. He eases back into it, the relentless motion speeding up now, whipsawing her between thumb and fingers. His eyes are locked on her face, her own eyes going unfocused and glassy, and he sees her skin suddenly flush bright red as her hips strain up to meet him, the rest of her body going rigid, then slack as her orgasm breaks.

She's shivering a little, so he wraps her up in himself, kissing her cheek, thinking, _damn, I do good work._ She turns her head, nestling against his neck, and whispers, "a hell of a way to start the day, Dixon."


End file.
